October 2013 | back-issues, poetry
the red line at midnight
on the subway
a middle-aged man
with scraggly grey hair
taps us on the shoulder
to show us a handwritten sign
which says,
I am deaf
please help if you can,
to some extent
causing a younger man behind us
to yell,
he ain’t deaf
he can talk
I’ve heard him
don’t fall for it,
also to some extent
so I shake off the beggar
and say, sorry, in the process
which he may
or may not have heard
the subway is always full of characters
and as each peculiar moment passes
under flickering fluorescents
another one is conceived
and soon it shall breathe life
for all us late night travelers to see
and occasionally
eye contact is shared
and held
between fellow strangers
only to remain held
as images
and preconceptions
unravel in the mind of two
cherish all of these moments
even the dancing man
selling sticky incense which smells of medicine
for they are real
and unflattering
and isn’t that what we love most?
half*mad
We move toward the mirage
with legs doused in sand
and sleeves rolled up into our armpits.
But it’s there—
oh, I can see it.
Shimmering in the golden haze
like the sine waves of air
behind a bbq pit.
Drench the coals in kerosene
and drop a match on the grill
so we can watch the flames jut towards the heavens
mimicking the sharp tips of the wooden fence
looming in the background.
The mirage is there
that much I promise.
And though our throats are dry
and lips chapped
and hands scaly with dead skin
those shimmering waves of air
are calling my name
beckoning me with curled fingers.
Can’t you hear?
You have to listen closely
for sometimes the whispers
are louder than the rest.
looking for what
Should we start?
What should we do?
Should we stop?
What should we do?
What are we looking for?
What are you looking for?
Why are you looking at me?
I don’t have the answer
and neither do you.
Does this overall lack of clarity
surprise you?
Welcome to the maze.
The infinitely
twisting
maze
of tomorrow
and the beast
of
yesterday.
Forget your trail of bread crumbs
for it has already been devoured.
mr. demille
Enough of science and art;
close up on purple stains & pale smoke,
the smiling Descent of Winter
and a woe weathered halfgone moon.
Close up on the flight of a human soul
surmounted by black and white heroes of the past—
life suspended between familiar blank fields
and rueful skies.
Close up on the uniform of intellect,
an insect’s unseen calm
and the skin of a ripe plum
colored blue from the languorous light of the sea.
When we’re able to outshine the pageantry of fear
those towering tombs with swiveling eyes
appear barren
as they are and have forever been.
victory
Phil Collins belts out his cheesy vocals
that echo through our kingdom
our 80s palace perched atop the hills of purity
the elevated ridges that lie above a fog of dissipating honesty.
Facades and lies and masks that hide the soul have no place in our
paradise of vulnerability—our sanctuary of truth and beauty and
childish courage that swims through the succulent veins of soldiers
hoisting loaded rifles with glimmering bayonets leading the way.
a collision of sorts
I was buying a cheap 40 oz.
with my dog in tow
when a young homeless man came up behind us
he was blond and tan
but his eyes were darty and distant
and immediately I knew
all of my change would be his
why?
I don’t know
because my pain runs deep with them
every single one
but I can’t give it all away
I can’t empty my wallet
at the drop of a frown
no matter how much I want to
so I restrain
I dissect
and I second guess
but always
every goddamn time
I’m left with a sickness in the pit of my stomach
that nags
and tugs
and tries to suffocate my happiness
but I won’t let it because I can’t bear to think of myself in such a
hollow position surrounded by such hollow souls with slicked back
hair and crisp lapels and legs that are trained to migrate away from
the uneasy stare of misfortune
hell no
I can’t let it eat me alive
I’m too weak
so I donate when I can
as often as I can
and attempt to move on
because I have to
but every now and then
one of the wounded come limping up
and try to pet my dog
but he’s growling
and I wonder why
but maybe he’s just scared
maybe we’re all scared
so I look at the wounded soul
and I don’t care what he’s done
for I’ll never know
and I don’t care why he did it
for I’ll never know
and I hand him all of my change
and walk away before his thank you reaches my ears
a walk up hillhurst
people pack inside the coffee shop
with their computers
and notepads
and wandering eyes
pretending to be infinitely important
and endlessly perplex
when all they actually want is to be seen
and to be comforted
by a group of strangers
who share the same insecurity
because those wandering eyes
aren’t meant to ward anyone off
or protect precious work
they’re lonely invitations
to a disappointing party
an empty beachside mansion
with the host asleep on the couch
watered down whiskey still in hand
so I get my coffee to go
and find a nearby bus bench
where I can write alone
until an old man
holding two bags of groceries in each hand
takes the open seat to my left
as I finish my poem
a nice walk can invigorate the mind
and inspire tired knees
but on my way back
I see a cat sitting on a windowsill
who pays no attention to me as I pass
entirely unaffected by my presence
I guess I don’t mean anything to him
but he means something to me
— Cliff Weber
Cliff Weber is 26 years-old and lives in Los Angeles. He has self-published three books and two chapbooks, all of which can be purchased on lulu.com and in select bookstores. His work has appeared in Adbusters, Out of Our, Beatdom, Bartleby Snopes, and Burningword, among others. He will begin the Creative Writing program at USC in the fall of 2013. Follow his blog, Word Meds (www.wordmeds.la), for your daily dose of literature.
October 2013 | back-issues, poetry
Joey
at the mercy of my feelings
in the palm of your hand
you’ve got me.
headlights float outside my window
like UFOs or the goat-drawn
chariots of Norse gods.
I’ll spell these figment cuddles
and kisses into stars
imploding, melting at my fingertips.
this has happened too many
times and my smile has found its crease,
but there are too few promises left
to group like marbles,
rolling in the bottom of a bucket.
Polite Love Notes
The wind whips, whistling
outside my window. Dirty laundry
strewn across the bed,
my thoughts of you
sprawling over every spare surface.
The chill of January
draws to a close and here
I am, my imagination
drawing you close, closer.
Kissing ghost lips,
wishing beyond wishes,
pronouncing every “please”
as clearly as I can
because my hopes are climbing
out of my chest
onto this page, a canvas,
whatever they can reach
ever writing and rewriting
the poem that keeps you near me.
My Heart Thrums Like the Radio
Happy is hard to hold,
fling a rope and do your best
to tie it up tidy
take the flood captive.
But you unwound the spark,
tapping a rhythm
amid the ordinary colors
a dance of pulses and pearls.
Stealing Kisses in An Art Gallery
Dropping I love yous like candy pieces
licking up scraps of affection
whenever they are spared.
Glorying in the sound of
my own name, eyes closed in
reverence, basking in
the thickest fog and prettiest paint.
Stow the memories, the needless nostalgia,
for this moment has me lighter than air.
Cold Calligraphy
Something delicate,
something I could understand
like pink petals cascading
settling soft on pale skin –
blonde hair,
glimmering eyes.
Not anything like this cold –
a girl carving sentences,
her friends to fragments,
herself to pieces.
I would hold her but for all
the edges. But for
my wounds being cut
just as fresh, just as cleanly.
— Sarah Lucille Marchant (twitter.com/flutterpulse)
October 2013 | back-issues, poetry
My Mother is a video nasty,
a lurid analog nightmare
transcribed with bloody fingers
onto VHS, shoved in a thin
cardboard box with age lines like soggy skin,
then sealed in urban legends:
tight, taught cellophane.
They speak of it in whispers on
discussion boards.
How the tracking is off on every copy,
EVERY copy. There is a gnarly buzz
scratching through the opening credits.
The last 15 minutes are legendary.
She removes her face with her finger nails,
pulls it off like a thin rubbery plastic.
A secret face, white
microwaves of intense mockery,
focused as a lighthouse beam.
Papi dies the hard way, the Clive Barker way.
Hangers like hooks, fish hooks,
tear him asunder.
He is hunks of raw, red steak.
Ribs flower from
torso as marrow oozes like a thick pollen.
This is an important shot, the commenters say,
the reconfiguring of his sex. KubrickFurry asserts
Ann’s monstrous feminine is conservative. RandallFlag
retorts there is a lacanian message obscured by this corpse
flower: the trauma of child abuse embodied by the real.
I am dodging face suns, hauling ass through the
barbed chain bramble that was my home.
Avatars debate over impossible architecture: men and women
sparring with verbal chainsaws as I run through
a five and a half minute hallway, chased by a faceless medusa
in a dream of jagged ambien singed into the glass eye of a
Kodak camera.
No one understands the ending.
They say I have to live,
fight my sister in the sequel.
They say the irrational is the milieu of cult films.
I say burn every copy of this ring virus.
Smash it.
Crush it.
Never let your mother watch it.
— David Arroyo
October 2013 | back-issues, poetry
look at old kansas in the corner
everyone laughs
they always do
stared into the sun for too long
went blind went crazy
went way too fast on icy roads
and drinks to dowse a burning mistake
he says –
i remember the black and white days
back in goodland
the spencer girls in tight cotton dresses
walking back from church
in the sweet heat of summer
shutters slapping the old henderson house
most nights i could hear them
before you were born
the sky was sepia
you’re hearing ghosts – old kansas in the corner
he sits slouching with a bible and a bell
the old man knocks one back and spins faster
in the world of whiskey
he says –
i dug the earth for fifty years
i’m a fifth generation to plow these fields
but the crop is thin these days
the red plains yawn under the new sun
like beasts yoked for labor
— Kevin McCoy
October 2013 | back-issues, poetry
“Therefore put away all filthiness and rank growth of wickedness
and receive with meekness the implanted word, which is able to save
your souls. (James 1:21 RSV)
I scratched, pinched, bit my way through today
as if I didn’t come from a long line of God fearing folk
but from Darwin’s monkeys being provoked with pokes of fun
by human aliens all safe on the other side of the hellish cage.
I dug a deep trench hiding safely behind garbage bags of self pity
then started a sunrise war with my defenseless family,
went on to battle an army of co-workers until lunch hour found me
picking fights with unarmed cashiers, shoppers, fruit vendors,
with noses lifted so high in the air they could probably
identify by smell the flowers in heaven but not tell me..
I missed when I tried to kick a snarling dog
on the leash of a snarling man both of whom barked
at me with mouthfuls of long, white teeth, crooked
like the interlacing necks of hungry trumpeter swans
I saw later while sitting on the bench but didn’t care to feed.
Beating it home, I blasted the horn, shook a mean finger
at a gang of elementary kids playing dodge ball in the street
then couldn’t find a song on the car radio that
didn’t fill me up with great big foul irritation.
Saying prayers while I brush my teeth and my husband snores
I ask God why he gave me the burden of so much anger today
even though I know He didn’t, will mercifully forgive and help me
once I accept the blame, humbly drop to my knees to pick up
the empty cartridges of my wicked weapons of words and deeds,
that I pray have left no permanent wounds in the lives of others.
All that I have won today is a flag of guilt slapping me in the face
with the filth of my own hands; a flag at half staff with it’s metal pole
jammed deep into the shallow ground of my soul.
— Carol A. Oberg
During her writing career Carol has published widely with Blue Mountain Arts, Inc., was one of three featured poets (10 works) in Ancient Paths, issue 16, and has also published with Carcinogenic Poetry, The Avocet, Extract(s), and in the fall issue of The Fourth River (Chatham University). This poem was first published in Ancient Paths in 2010 and was nominated for a Pushcart Award.
October 2013 | back-issues, poetry
Methylphenidate is the name I use
To lull my child to sleep,
Swaddling her diaper rash in vinyl chloride.
I haven’t slept in days but no matter, red eyes
they suit me like latex gloves.
[What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger
Or else,
The pricks of a thousand chemicals
grow you new tumor friends
to show your family and coworkers.]
Paraben is the name I write on my mailbox
to ensure everyone knows not to write.
I’m not home, but I am
Inhabiting the home.
Breathing in lingering Febreeze fumes,
my mouth pressed against the armchair arm.
While the baby’s red mouth squalls.
Hetrocyclic amine is the name I say
on my child’s first birthday,
to call her out from hiding under the stairs.
I wrap my arm around her chest
and urge her to pet the neighbor’s snarling dog.
While his wife frosts a high fructose cake
and counts out Styrofoam plates.
— Meagan Maguire
Meagan Maguire is a 22 year old poet living and occasionally working in Portland, Maine. She enjoys reading, running, and informing people there actually is another Portland besides the one in Oregon. Previously her work has been featured or will be featured in The Alarmist, The Golden Sparrow Literary Review, The Eunoia Review, Words & Images, and Marco Polo Arts Mag.
